Denial and Recognition
by Escaping Gravity
Summary: If you never think it, it doesn't exist. Right? Tom clearly hopes so. Janeway takes a different approach.
1. Denial

**Title:** Denial

**Summary:** If you never think it, it doesn't exist. Right? Tom clearly hopes so.

**A/N:** This is a J/P fic, folks, and a fun one to write at that. Enjoy! (Or turn back now if that's not your cup of tea. But I love tea, and I think people should try as many flavors as possible...)

* * *

_DENIAL_

**=A=**

The way she leans forward just slightly, the look in her eye, the arch in her brow. You can't help but notice. Who _hasn't _noticed?

But you—you don't think of it like that, not with her. Not with Janeway.

It's ridiculously obvious that she is your commanding officer. Captain. She wouldn't hesitate to chew your ass out; it isn't appropriate.

At any rate, what could an older woman realistically get from you, the resident flyboy? You try to tell yourself this nearly every day. Not that you need to, because these thoughts never happen anyways, or there are perfectly reasonable explanations for why they do.

Your breath catching every time her hand finds your shoulder? It's the unexpected contact, broken concentration. Easily fixed if you'd just relax at the helm.

Her gaze on you, coinciding with the feeling that your body is a furnace? Uniform's too tight. Simple.

You're just the ex-con pilot, after all, and there's nothing to see here. You have to focus on not screwing things up, because you've done enough of that already.

You make up your mind to stop thinking about all of this stuff entirely when, as if on cue, she calls your name.

"Lieutenant Paris, my ready room."

"Yes, ma'am," you respond automatically, rising to comply with her order.

Her gaze falls on you before she briskly leads the way into the other room, and you're not looking at her like that. You're not.

The doors hiss open and you follow her in, wondering what this is about. The familiar sight of the ready room greets you as you hear the doors slide shut behind you. The smell here is different from the bridge, more pleasant. You think maybe it's the flowers. But the room _looks_ the same as always to you, she hasn't changed anything in it for quite some time. The couches, the table, the chairs, her desk. Everything is exactly how you remember it.

Not once does the thought of her ordering you onto the desk cross your mind.

"At ease, Tom. This won't take long, I'd just like to voice a concern of mine."

Your attention snaps to her and you respond quickly, easily, just as Tom Paris should: with a grin and an arms-wide gesture.

"By all means, Captain."

You know Janeway enjoys taking a personal approach with her crew, but that knowledge doesn't save you. She promptly maneuvers into your personal space and you fight the overwhelming urge to step back, away from this temptation.

Although she is shorter, her eyes lock firmly onto yours, and she might as well be looking down on you; her stare is penetrating and it clearly projects authority.

Your throat goes dry...you can't remember the last mischievous thing you did. Was it an indecent bet? A prank on the Doctor? Harsh words about Neelix's cooking? What did you do wrong?

But there is a tinge of worry in her face now as she continues: "You seem a bit...distracted."

She frowns thoughtfully for a moment. You can't help but feel like a puzzle she's trying to solve as she examines you.

"Is there something wrong, Tom?"

"I don't think so, Captain, though I'm grateful for your concern," you hear yourself say too quickly, trying very hard to believe it yourself.

She pauses, and you can tell she definitely doesn't believe you. Great. Now she will press further.

Somehow she shifts even closer to you while her hand begins its familiar ascent to your shoulder. She touches you lightly there, causing your head to swim. This is approaching unbearable.

You must be coming down with a fever.

Your eyes stay steady on hers; you refuse to acknowledge the intoxicating tension she's creating. Or the burn where her hand is.

"Talk to me, Tom."

You try to clear your throat—you end up with a little cough instead. Shit. Then you look away, desperate to at least put some distance between the two of you. The viewport catches your eye and you walk over, leaving her for a few seconds. As you briefly study the stars shooting past, trying to refocus your attention on the vastness of space, you decide to be somewhat honest with her.

"It's no big deal, Captain, just something I have to work out for myself." That's all you'll ever admit to her out loud, and you hope she never figures out exactly what you're refering to.

And yet she slowly traces your steps to the viewport, standing directly behind you, inches away, persistent. You shiver because of the cold—_only_ because of the cold—and you don't hear that characteristically low, throaty sound in her voice when she asks if she could _help_ with anything in the meantime.

Of all the things to ask.

Her offer is wholesome. Your thoughts, on the other hand...

At this point, you are forced to admit that your veneer of propriety is cracking. If this conversation continues, she will destroy it altogether and you will humiliate the hell out of yourself. So you do the only thing you can: you redouble your efforts at self-preservation and fight to seal up the cracks.

"Nope, I don't need help. I'll handle it," you reply lightly, bravely turning to come face-to-face with her again at close proximity.

"Well, I'd be happy to lend an ear or provide assistance, Lieutenant. I'm always here if you need me."

"Thanks, Captain." You pull a Paris smile out to reassure her.

She nods, satisfied, and turns to walk out, leaving you standing there, momentarily dazed. You realize (belatedly) that your heart is pounding and your lungs haven't fully expanded in some time. It must be the environmental controls—the air in here is too thin, isn't it?

"Dismissed," she calls over her shoulder, exiting smoothly and waving you back to your shift.

As you stride back out onto the bridge, you ignore her while she seats herself. You sit in your chair and are preparing to mind your own business when you feel her eyes on you once again.

You're not thinking about how intelligent, wise, compassionate, and beautiful she is, or about the incredible things she's done for you. Not a chance. You have decency and morals, too; you're not thinking about what could have happened in that ready room if you'd made a move.

And neither is she.

**=A=**

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**A/N2:** Hope that wasn't a waste of anyone's time. Reviews are always welcome. :) I may consider writing this from Janeway's perspective, or even another fic exploring similar themes with Seven. Not sure yet.


	2. Recognition

**A/N: **Sorry for the long wait on this one, I didn't expect to become incredibly busy in the past few weeks; I hardly have time/energy for myself. It took a blizzard (Snowmageddon in the Midwest!) and the cancellation of literally everything in the Chicagoland area for me to get the time to write some fanfiction. Unfortunately, the internet was gone as I was writing this, so I couldn't post it right away! But here it is now. :)

The companion piece to "Denial" is, fittingly, called "Recognition."

* * *

_RECOGNITION_

**=A=**

It hasn't been the same.

You can't put your finger on it, but something is off. Some unknown substance has been introduced into the solution, and because you're a scientist at heart, you're intent on discovering what it is.

Scientists are not fools, however, and do not make hasty adjustments to solutions; they observe, they study. You understand that the same can be said with respect to humans—human chemistry is intricate and therefore requires plenty of caution before making a decision to tamper. Rushed adjustments tend to produce explosions.

Still, nothing beats an old-fashioned command hunch. Tom Paris is preoccupied with something. Instinct nimbly bypasses the processes of your rational mind and you _sense _this.

Resting your fingers on your temple, you contemplate the options briefly from the command chair. Should you approach the matter informally, find your pilot in the mess hall or the holodeck and make an offhand comment that might lead somewhere? Give it more time, see if this peters out? Or take a direct and formal route in order to get right to the heart of the matter?

You examine the pros and cons rapidly, experience catalyzing the process. The answer comes to you almost intuitively; you have known Tom for so long and have encountered this decision so many times before with other officers that everything falls into place almost too easily.

Glancing quickly at Chakotay, you stifle a chuckle at his near-asleep state. The middle of the shift is always the most difficult; you can hardly blame him. He's in such a stupor that he doesn't even notice you.

Well, at least that gives you the green light.

You study Tom at the helm, freed from any accusations Chakotay might make had he been paying attention to your line of sight. You don't mean anything by your gaze, but you'd rather not invite unnecessary suspicion.

Tom moves slightly, shifting his weight. He appears to be intensely focused on the console in front of him for whatever reason and unaware of the bridge. It dawns on you suddenly that his jokes and good-natured banter with you and the rest of the bridge crew have been largely absent over the past few hours. If you believed in signs, this would certainly be one, and it cements the decision to approach him about his behavior.

"Lieutenant Paris, my ready room," you call out, pushing yourself off the command chair. Chakotay snaps out of his daze, eyeing the two of you with a veiled mistrust that only you can detect. You pretend not to notice, opting instead to make eye contact with Tom before turning to head into your ready room. The doors swish closed and assure the privacy you're seeking.

Questions circle in Tom's eyes as you face him, quickly noting the slight stubble on his face as well as the rigid way he holds himself. He looks as though he's miles away for a second, eyes clouded with some emotion you can't identify. Something is definitely not right.

"At ease, Tom. This won't take long, I'd just like to voice a concern of mine."

His recovery is impressive—his attention comes back to the moment and he's once again acting like the Tom Paris you're familiar with, charm and all.

"By all means, Captain," he replies smoothly, and you have to give him credit. He hides his demons almost as well as you do.

But you know Tom. You aren't fooled for a second.

So now you're moving to confront him directly, employing a command stare so that both of you must lock eyes. He needs to know that you are serious. As you come to a stop in front of him, his body language changes almost imperceptibly, causing you to hesitate.

Being a captain, your ability to recognize fear is unparalleled, and there can be no mistake: what you sense from Tom is fear.

"You seem a bit...distracted," you state, frowning. You can't help but feel baffled by his reaction to you. Your relationship with Tom has been a remarkably easy, trusting one, and it's not like him to act this way around you.

"Is there something wrong, Tom?"

He dodges you again as he responds, replying that he doesn't think so. The hell nothing's wrong. He's lying to your face and you know he's afraid of something. You're going to find out what's going on despite his smokescreen, that's just the Janeway in you.

You pause for a second and without warning, some of the pieces unexpectedly rearrange themselves in your mind.

The new pattern they form is surprising, certainly not one you were looking for, and at first it seems wrong—you must have it wrong. This has caught you off-guard. It couldn't-you can't quite believe that after all this time... Yet the hypothesis sticks; it won't budge, and it taunts you, urging you to experiment and find out if you're that far off. So...you do.

You step very, very close to him. Your hand moves to his shoulder with a calculated grace, resting comfortably there. You keep your voice and expression soft, hoping that it will coax him into sharing or give you a definite sign.

"Talk to me, Tom."

It comes out with a sultry undertone you hadn't intended, and you instantly feel an awkward horror at yourself.

But even so, his reaction is immediate and telling. He lets out a strangled, uneasy cough and won't look you in the eye—your stomach flips as you realize that you've somehow hit the nail on the head, the unlikely pattern fits. He's turning away to walk to the viewport now, thankfully missing the unguarded look of shock on your face and giving you time to process.

You don't know who should be more embarrassed. How long have you been oblivious for? How long has he felt like this for? The problems are obvious, but—

"It's no big deal, Captain, just something I have to work out for myself." His voice interrupts your spiraling thoughts, and you stare at his back for a second, wondering what he is feeling right now. After the Warp 10 incident, you'd gotten used to the idea that Tom Paris might think of you that way; the subject was unavoidable at that time. You had just assumed that over the months and years his thoughts would dissipate...

Mutated offspring may not count for much, but if nothing else, it counts as an indication that the attraction has been there for both of you. It still _is_ there, it's the background noise in the relationship that can be heard if you focus. You just hadn't been paying attention.

You once thought of Tom that way. It has been a long time, but it feels good to listen again—alarmingly good. A warning flag goes up and you're already trying to dam the feelings that come back to life.

Hoping to smooth this out as soon as possible, with minimal damage, you walk carefully over to him and speak.

"Can I help you with anything in the meantime?"

Even as the words leave your mouth, the double entendre occurs to you.

Why is this happenging? That's not what you meant and you can't go there. Not now. Not even in your mind. It doesn't matter if you want to, you have to get past this and ignore the reaction you are experiencing for both of your sakes. It is imperative that you act professionally. You have done this many times with Chakotay; why is this hard?

Tom denies your offer of assistance and unexpectedly turns to face you, as if to deliberately challenge the fortress he knows is your heart. His move makes it so that the two of you are close again—too close, given the circumstances—and suddenly you find yourself wondering what would happen if...if he leaned in...

If he put his hands on you...

If his breath was at your neck...how good that would feel...

Rationally, you recoil from what is playing out in your head, drowning it with cold reason. But emotions cannot be blotted out by reason. Emotions don't care about age or rank, and they certainly don't give a damn about protocol.

Emotion would demand that you shove Tom Paris onto the couch and let your repressed desire express itself.

It has been so long...you have been alone for so long, and he is willing—

_No._

As if through a deep fog, you hear the Captain say, "Well, I'd be happy to lend an ear or provide assistance, Lieutenant. I'm always here if you need me."

And he thanks you and it's...done.

At that moment you want desperately to fix this part of you that cannot be vulnerable and honest anymore. The part that locks down and walks away from Tom, dismissing him casually. The part that self-preserves.

Your self-preservation is killing you.

Tom has matured, grown responsible, and would make a fine catch these days...but it is too late. You made this decision a long time ago, and now you must reap what you've sown. You tell yourself that he is happy with B'Elanna; your chance has passed. There is no point in ruminating on it.

Sitting at your command chair once more, you nod pleasantly at Chakotay instead. You got what you wanted, after all: yes, something is bothering Tom Paris. You now know what it is.

It's the same thing bothering you.

=A=

* * *

**A/N2:** Reviews appreciated as always. :) Sorry again for the long turnaround time.

The premise of this whole Denial/Recognition fic comes from my sense that Janeway radiates sexuality, subtly and overtly; I wanted to explore that with Tom yet keep it largely plausible/canon (nobody acts on anything). To me, these two have genuine chemistry, and the mentor/protege dynamic plus the age difference adds quite a charge as well. It would have been interesting to see it play out on the show...something nonstandard but realistically possible. Alas, all we'll ever get is "Threshold." :)

_Don't believe in forced entry, don't believe in rape_

_But every time she passes by, wild thoughts escape.  
_

U2, "God Part II_"  
_


	3. Infringement

**A/N: **I had to do it. :) Here is an alternate ending. It might be a bit OOC, but I felt like playing. Enjoy!

* * *

_INFRINGEMENT_

**=A=**

"Can I help you with anything in the meantime?" Janeway asks, her question filling the void in the room.

Paris won't even chance a look at her, he can hardly trust himself at this point. His body is assaulted by desire and his mind is screaming at him to stop. This experience of internal conflict is not new to him; it is more like an old friend back to visit. His past is littered with the wreckage of these battles.

Maybe he will never learn, maybe he is destined to be a failure—but he knows somewhere in himself that he is not living unless he is making mistakes, and making them spectacularly. That has been the story of his life.

He knows without a doubt that what he is about to say is going to open the door to an inappropriate situation. It is. It's wrong on a variety of levels and he's aware that he may earn himself a trip to the brig for it. But that hasn't stopped him before.

In some demented way, Paris believes in this.

"Tom?" Janeway is still waiting for an answer and, unbeknownst to him, waging her own private battle.

She is human. It has taken her some time to accept this, but it's true. From time to time, when she's alone with her thoughts, she longs to encounter an alien species with the technology to turn off attraction. To turn off feelings altogether. It would make things a hell of a lot easier. But she's human.

Her worst enemy is not the Borg, or the Hirogen, or any other Delta Quadrant foe. It's her own imagination. In her mind, every now and then things happen that should never happen. In her mind, things can spiral out of control and she is powerless.

And the worst part is, she enjoys it.

"No offense, Captain," Paris finally responds, feeling like he's going to vomit as the words tumble out, "but you're the last person who should probably help me right now."

"I beg your pardon?" Janeway's confusion would be evident if Paris could see her. He still hasn't turned to face her, so she moves to stand beside him at the viewport and get a better look at his face. It is unreadable.

He wants to say "never mind" but "let me explain" comes out instead. There's no choice now; he feels himself jump off the proverbial cliff, and the only thing left to do is fall into gravity's arms.

_All in._

Janeway's eyes are already on him as he turns and steps closer to her. Her face is beautiful in the starlight. He feels like a criminal, feels crude and inadequate in front of her.

But he leans.

She sees it and her hands are on his chest, gently holding him there. He's mere inches from her face and his hands have frozen on her hips. She recognizes this danger all too well, but she's just as caught as he is, unable to breathe and unable move away; the reaction to his touch is overpowering.

At such an intimate range, with their eyes locked, neither can escape absolute honesty with the other. Fear is wordlessly communicated between them: fear of rejection, fear of betrayal, fear of consequences...but most of all, fear of their mutual attraction and what it would mean to taste forbidden fruit.

They are so close. So close to doing this.

"Sorry," Tom whispers, breaking the silence first.

Janeway swallows and says nothing, keeping her eyes steady on his. There is only a second's hesitation before she leans in to kiss him.

**=A=**

**

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A/N2: **Switched it up into third person just because. :) **  
**


End file.
